


The Incident with the Bicycle

by Garonne



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-26 01:02:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1668974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garonne/pseuds/Garonne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We know Holmes can ride a bicycle, but when exactly did he learn?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Incident with the Bicycle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gardnerhill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardnerhill/gifts).



> A big thank you to rabidsamfan for beta-reading. Any remaining mistakes are my own!
> 
> This was written for gardnerhill as part of the 4th round of ACD_holmesfest.

.. .. ..

We were on a darkened farmyard in rural Herefordshire when what I later came to think of as the "incident with the bicycle" occurred. We had spent the past four hours lying in wait in one of the barns for the dashing young Colonel Peters to appear. Mrs Wilks and her daughters had long since gone to bed; we had seen the lights go out one by one in their living room, hallway, and bedrooms. I rather envied them their warm, comfortable beds, though at least Mrs Wilks had thoughtfully provided us with blankets to lay across the straw in the barn. But it didn't stop me longing for my own bed in Baker Street -- particularly now that it had the added and novel attraction of being Holmes' bed too.

Holmes, at that moment, was sitting calmly on a bale of hay beside me, staring out into the shadowy farmyard, an unlit pipe in his mouth. I could only make out the outline of his head against the slightly lighter square of the open barn doorway. He hadn't moved for the past hour.

I shifted a little, trying to find a more comfortable position on my own bale of hay.

"Perhaps Mrs Wilks was mistaken," I whispered to Holmes. "Perhaps her cousin truly is simply stepping out for a last pipe before bed every evening."

Holmes did not answer. Just at that moment, we heard the sound of the farmhouse's back door opening and shutting. A minute later, Mrs Wilk's visitor appeared in the patch of moonlight between the house and the barn. He was not planning to travel on foot, however. He was wheeling a bicycle.

Our plan of trailing him to his midnight rendezvous suddenly seemed a great deal less viable than it had a minute before.

Holmes muttered an oath under his breath. Instead of starting after Peters on foot, however, he vanished from my side, into the dark depths of the barn. He returned a few moments later wheeling another bicycle. Like the Colonel's, it was what we called a 'high-wheeler' in those days, with a small back wheel and a front wheel that came almost to my shoulder.

"I see you had your eyes shut when we were in here this morning," Holmes murmured in answer to my look of surprise. He held out the bicycle to me. "Come on, man. Not a moment to lose."

"But Holmes, surely you -- "

"Watson."

The tone of command in his voice was unmistakable. I had only been involved in a handful of his cases in the six months I'd known him, but I had already learnt that it was Holmes who gave the orders, when we were working.

"All right, all right," I said. "Hold it steady."

I placed one foot on the low peg on the back wheel, and then hoisted myself up into the saddle, gripping the handlebars firmly at the same time. I hadn't been on a bicycle since I was up at university, and I felt horribly unsteady.

Holmes let go as I began to pedal. I narrowly missed the jamb of the barn door on my way out, but as soon as I was clear of the barn and out in the yard, I began to feel like I had the hang of the thing again.

Peters was already a few hundred yards down the road ahead of me, but fortunately I could see at quite a distance, thanks to the moonlight that broke through the clouds. I pedalled slowly at first to let him get even further ahead of me.

I was not in as good condition as I had been when I last rode a bicycle, and it was only a few months since I'd still been practically an invalid. Fortunately, Peters didn't go very far. Within ten minutes, he was creeping through the garden of a large stone manor house, having stowed his bicycle behind an azalea bush.

He took a ladder from the garden shed with the air of a man who knew his way around the place, and laid it up against the house. For a moment I thought I was about to witness a burglary, until a light came on in one of the upper rooms, and a woman's silhouette appeared at the window. Philips practically fell from the ladder into her arms, and I was witness to an enthusiastic embrace before the light was extinguished and the pair vanished from my sight.

So this was the explanation for all the mysterious notes, suspicious behaviour and midnight excursions that had so perturbed the colonel's cousin Mrs Wilks!

Holmes will be sorely disappointed, I thought, though I was smiling to myself at the same time. Being in love oneself makes one feel particularly sympathetic to all others in the same condition, and I had been madly in love for six months now.

.. .. ..

It wasn't until we were sitting in the train back to London that I had time to wonder why on earth Holmes had insisted I follow Philips in his stead. The answer was obvious, of course. Holmes couldn't ride a bicycle.

The thought amused me.

Holmes and I had been living together for over half a year now, the last two months of which had been marked by a decided increase in the level of intimacy between us. I had grown to know him far better than I had first expected or indeed hoped to, but he never ceased to amaze me with his brilliance. To those capabilities related to his work, I had begun to add a catalogue of more carnal talents, equally impressive. I loved and admired him in equal measure, but it was sometimes comforting to be reminded that he was still human.

I decided to use this newly discovered shortcoming of Holmes' to subject him to a little gentle teasing. It wasn't often I had the opportunity to do so, after all.

I began, therefore, the very next day after our return to London.

"Holmes," I said, looking up from my evening newspaper.

He was bent over his desk, busy with a stack of newspapers of his own, carefully clipping out and filing articles.

"Hmm?"

"Mrs Hudson is going to visit her sister at the end of the month."

"I know," he said, without looking up.

"And you remember we said it would be a good idea if we were to go away somewhere at the same time?"

"Yes, I remember," he said, a hint of impatience creeping into his voice. He had raised his head to look at me, and though his tone had been impatient there was affection in his gaze. _Out with it, my dear Watson,_ his eyes said.

I hurried on.

"Well, I thought we could perhaps spend a few days touring the Norfolk Broads. A bicycling holiday, for example."

Holmes said nothing. He was still cutting out the same article he had been before I spoke, but all expression had drained from his face, so that it was now quite neutral, almost blank.

It wasn't precisely the reaction I had expected.

"What do you think?" I prompted.

"Certainly, we spoke of going away, but I'm not sure what led you to believe I thought we should go away together," he said in an even tone. "I don't recall having made any such suggestion."

For a moment I could only stare.

I suddenly felt like I had completely misread all of our interactions, and had an entirely different view of what was happening between us -- of our "understanding", as Holmes had sometimes referred to it.

It hadn't been very long since we had come to that understanding, of course, and we had never spoken of it explicitly -- at least, not since the day when first Holmes had diffidently proposed that we might find some mutual satisfaction in each other's company.

We spent much of our time together, of course, but that would have been the case had we remained two near strangers who shared a sitting room for expedience. We worked together sometimes, in recent months at least, but that was at least partly expedient too. Holmes often needed an assistant, and enjoyed an audience. When we slept together, though, I certainly hadn't considered that to arise from expedience. But what did I know of what Holmes thought?

Holmes had turned away again, and was now carefully pasting his cutting onto a sheet of stiff paper.

After a long silence, I returned to my newspaper, but I didn't turn another page for the rest of the evening.

.. .. ..

I didn't see Holmes at all the following morning. He had already left the house before I rose, early as that was. But when I returned from my club that evening, I found two tickets for one of Caryll's operettas at the Gaiety lying on the dining table. A clear peace offering, for the theatre was far more to my taste than to Holmes'.

I hung up my coat, sat down by the fire and waited.

Holmes appeared in a whirl of words and paper half an hour later. He was carrying a large stack of files, and I had absorbed enough of his methods to deduce from one or two details about his person that he had spent the afternoon at the London Library in St. James's Square.

"Ah, there you are, Watson," he cried. "If you want to come out to dinner before the theatre, you had better bestir yourself, you know."

So saying he deposited the pile of paper on his desk, and began shedding his outer layers.

He threw a quick glance at me between the doffing of coat-belt and coat, and I observed that he was not quite as sure of himself as he tried to appear.

"Of course I'm coming," I said. 

He had his back to me just then, but I saw him relax.

"To the theatre but not to dinner."

He dropped the final item -- his gloves -- on the table, and turned slowly.

"Oh?"

"Firstly, because Mrs Hudson is expecting us to stay in for dinner and we're not going to put her out."

He began to wave aside that objection, but I cut across him.

"Secondly, because I want to ask you something."

That brought him up short.

I raised an eyebrow.

"Very well," he said reluctantly.

Mrs Hudson appeared just at that point to ask whether we should be ready for dinner in half an hour or so. I told her we would, and in the meantime, Holmes and I went to look out our dress coats for the theatre.

When I finally sat down to dinner with Holmes, he was covering up wariness with a nonchalant air of unconcern. I ignored this, and attacked the matter head-on as soon as Mrs Hudson had left us.

"I appreciate the gesture," I said, nodding at the theatre tickets on the sideboard, "but I don't think it's wise to simply sweep things under the carpet, so to speak."

Holmes' eyes widened, unsurprisingly. After all, that was precisely what we were in the habit of doing after any sort of disagreement.

I took a deep breath.

"I don't know what you -- that is to say, this isn't something we've ever discussed before, but for my part I'd quite like to remain your friend and -- and companion for many years to come."

Holmes opened his mouth and then shut it again. His eyes had widened perceptibly and a faint pink colour had flooded his cheeks.

I had no intention of letting him speak just yet in any case, principally because I was afraid that if I stopped now I would lose my nerve myself. I hurried on.

"Such a -- a companionship can only be built on strong foundations, and that demands a certain amount candour from both parties. For my part, I'm willing to -- I -- " I found I wasn't quite sure how to go on, and I couldn't get my thoughts straight, particularly with Holmes' intense gaze fixed on me. "Well, there you go," I said instead. "Now you know how I feel."

Holmes' gaze had gentled.

"You're a braver man than I am, Watson," he said softly.

He didn't say anything more. Of course I hadn't been expecting a declaration of devotion for the next four decades. Undiscouraged, I pressed on to the heart of the matter.

"When I suggested a cycling holiday it wasn't meant to wound, you know. It was meant in jest."

"Evidently," he said, which was a lie if I ever heard one. He had taken it extremely seriously at the time. I had meant it seriously too, in some sense. I had thought it could be rather fun.

"Then why -- ?"

"I didn't particularly want to make a fool of myself. Surely that's not so hard to understand?"

"I would understand if we were speaking of trying to perform for a group of strangers. But not wanting to look a little, ah, ridiculous in front of me, well -- "

"Particularly not in front of you, Watson," he snapped.

Suddenly, I thought I understood. I wondered if Holmes believed I was in love with an ideal, and not with him. With a dashing, flawless, awe-inspiring genius.

"Holmes, my regard for you isn't based on my being in awe of you."

"No?" he said, apparently fascinated by the food he was pushing around on his plate.

I reached out and took his chin, raising his head to meet my gaze.

"Holmes, if you don't feel you can let your guard down with me, then the companionship I spoke about just now isn't worth a damn."

He blinked.

"I -- " His grimace turned into a smile. "Perhaps I should admit you're also a wiser man than I am."

I let my hand drop from his chin.

"Don't be silly," I said, though I was smiling now too.

"Perhaps I might be persuaded to go to Norfolk after all," he said slowly.

"We don't have to -- "

He held up a fork in imperious fashion.

"We're going to Norfolk, Watson." He applied himself to his hitherto untouched beef ragout. "Now eat up, or we'll miss the first act."

.. .. ..

"Why anyone should wish to spend a week in this place is beyond me," said Holmes, glowering out the window as our train pulled into Stokesby station.

I decided now was not the time for an ode to the beauty of the changeable, wide-open skies, the tranquil broads and sandy beaches.

"It's flat," I said, and Holmes grimaced at the reminder of the reason for our visit.

Two hours later, we had left our bags at the hotel, lunched, and were standing with two rented bicycles in a quiet country lane.

Holmes was holding his bicycle at arm's length, and looking dubious.

"It's really not so difficult," I said heartily. "The trick is not to cycle too slowly or you'll wobble."

I believe I should draw a veil over the next few hours, for everyone's sake. Suffice it to say that Holmes can now ride a bicycle rather better than most men in London. And that my regard for him wasn't lessened one whit even after I lost track of the amount of times he landed in the dust. Mrs Hudson had words to say about the state of the knees of his trousers, however, once we got back to Baker Street.

They weren't the last pair of trousers either of us ruined bicycling, in the three decades that have passed since then. But it was the last time Holmes ever doubted that I loved him, body, soul and occasional, well-hidden, endearing flaws.

Fin

**Author's Note:**

> We know that Holmes, at least, can ride a bicycle; he does so in The Missing Three-Quarter. Neither he nor Watson can have learnt as children, however, since they were already in their teens when the first two-wheels-with-pedals type thing was invented, and of course even older before such a machine was popularised. Hence this story!
> 
> Bear in mind that for most of the 1880s -- and therefore in this story -- a "bicycle" meant a penny-farthing. The "safety" bicycle -- with two equal-sized wheels as today -- wasn't invented until 1885, and it was a few more years before the comfort of pneumatic tyres was added!


End file.
